Tag Archives: education

Those Friday afternoons. The kids got their weekends extended! Until that year in junior high, we had to report our sleep-deprived little asses to school — six bloody days a week! But then, things changed.

It took the Soviets a few years to catch up with the educational structure most of the world had been practicing; but one year, it did happen: The change finally reached the school of our lil’ town — a place so small and forgettable, it was rarely found on the USSR’s map.

The town’s only fame happened in Napoleonic Wars during some battle that the Russians had won. But even back then, neither its name nor the land belonged to Motha Russia. The Russian troops sort of ended up there while chasing the short man and his troops off our land: Fuck you, you little Alpha-Wannabe! We would rather strike a match to all of our cities ourselves — than let you prosper off of our emaciated backs! And then, we’ll chase your limping ass off our charred land like an army of underfed dogs terrorized by their owner.

The territorial piss that would result in this region’s inheritance would happen over a century later, after another little man’s dreams of world dominance. Again, we would chase him off our land, through our brutal winters and wild terrain; then, claim this patch as well: Finders keepers, Motha Fucka!

But that’s a whole other story.

I can’t even remember how it all happened. I was due to start the third grade, and somehow, over the course of the summer, it became known that we would all be skipping a grade. Was it a town-wide memo that got sent out through the channels of our bureaucratic post-office that spied on every citizen due to the orders from above (or simply due to our habitual nosiness)? The matters of privacy belonged to other cultures whose people were spoilt by individualistic values. But that wasn’t us, man! We were all in this together, till death — or a life-long sentence at a labor camp — do us part. No need for privacy here! Everything was up for an investigation or gossip, depending on how big of a fish you were. And we all sorta just lived with it.

By the time I and my former classmates reported back to school a week before the 1st of September, we knew we were suddenly fourth-graders (and that was somehow automatically cooler). After the sudden abolishment of itchy uniforms, in our best civilian clothes, we sat in our classroom, whose swamp-green walls were still wet with paint. (FYI: As Russians, we leave everything for the last minute. So, despite the 3-month-long summer break, the school would be renovated a mere week before the return of its students.) Every child looked tanner. The boys suddenly came back sounding like men — and not a choir of eunuchs. And besides me and another runt-of-the-litter looking redhead, over the course of the summer, every girl seemed to acquire a pair of breasts. That day, my girlfriends began repeating the gesture of every Soviet woman: The slip of the hand under the shirt and the adjustment of the bra straps, all committed with the speed of lightening.

What the fuck, I thought. I was still as flat as the granite wall of Lenin’s Mausoleum. It’s those bloody ballet classes that motha insisted I took! How was I supposed to acquire the curvatures that strained the boys’ necks — while having zero body fat? Spasibo, motha: Great idea! That’s one way to preserve my virginity!

Like a brood of hens, the girls were chirpy that day. Together, they flocked and shot the boys their suddenly feminine stares that reminded me of my motha. How and where did they learn how to do that? Some Polish Charm School for the Children of the Soviets? There were new hairstyles that day — bangs and wispy curls constructed with their mothers’ curling irons — and brand new school supplies that still smelled of the Chinese manufacturing plants of plastic. That day, Alyoshka — my unknowing future husband — showed up looking like that actor from the Soviet remake of the Three Musketeers; but like before, he paid me no attention. How could he? I had no lady gifts to offer him. Just my ballet hair bun and the assigned list of summer reading that I had diligently completed.

In a minute, the grouchy librarian, who hadn’t gotten laid since 1935, would come down and get us. Following her lead, we would climb up the stairs to the school’s attic. (“DO NOT TOUCH!” the wet railing read, but a few of us still managed to mar the brand new clothes we came to show off that day.) At first, we would be given every recycled textbook but the one for Russian history. That Motha Fucka had to be rewritten, you see. So, after skipping a grade, we would be forced to study the Age of Antiquity — for another year — while the Soviet scholars pulled all-nighters in Moscow’s Central Library and dug out the convoluted truths for the next year’s course. By the fifth grade, as a result, we’d get a bloody booklet: That’s as good as they could do, after a century of omissions and fabricated facts.

But despite all the changes — no bloody uniforms and no history books — the biggest news was the change of the work week: from six to five days. I imagined it was Uncle Gorbachev that issued the change with a mere skate-like-slide of his pen over the report from the Ministry of Education. I knew I liked that guy from the start!

Our parents, however, were not as thrilled: This would be the first of many changes that would aim at their wallets from then on (new clothes, new books and private school tuition for their children being one of the million). And that would really stick in their craw, man! Not cool, Gorby! Not cool at all!

She stands at about my height. I rarely see much difference between me and other women, though: And unless they’re tall enough to grace the covers of beauty magazines — or the streets of Manhattan — I consider them pretty much my height.

Although born on the coast of Mexico, her skin bears the same caramel color as mine. Her face, I can tell, used to be very pretty, even doll-like. Her formerly black hair is snow streaked with gray highlights; and it is gathered in the back of her head into a thick ponytail of luscious curls. Rich women would kill for thick hair like that!

I catch myself wondering how much she would have aged — had her life not been so hard.

I bet there is an encyclopedia of domestic tricks up this woman’s sleeve: Washing her hair with egg yolks, making masks out of avocado and honey, moisturizing her heels with Bengay. I’ve seen my own motha invent a few of those. We are immigrants: We get crafty, in survival. For life is relentless: It takes a toll on all of us all, but it’s most unforgiving — to us, women.

“Me too!” I say, and I begin nodding and smiling aggressively: Just anything to make her feel understood. “I was sixteen too!”

I want to tell her to switch to her native language, because I am pretty sure I get the gist of her already. Despite the difference between our birth coasts, we seem to speak of the same tales.

But then again, maybe not:

I keep flaunting my American education in order to impress employers with gigs at a higher rate. She — cleans houses for a living. I tend to get hired to work the phones and to organize the lives of others that have gotten cluttered with too many demands. She — creates order in other people’s homes, with her no longer soft, but womanly hands. Besides the existences of my bosses, I am responsible primarily for myself. She — has three kids to take care of, and a boyish husband.

“You? No marr-rried?” she asks me.

The importance of family defines happiness in her culture; so, I get slightly embarrassed for a moment. Despite the difference between our birth coasts, I so very much want us to be alike. Is it this woman’s approval that I’m striving for; or just her empathy?

In one breath, I deliver: “NoIamnotmarried.”

“In a couple more years, you’ll be middle-aged,” a man has declared the other day.

This woman’s arms are cradling a tiny dog; and in the folds of her stomach, he easily goes to sleep. Her figure belongs to a mother: She is fuller, curvier than my boyish frame. Her hands are more sure and seemingly more knowing than mine.

“Is good you no married so soon,” she says. She must’ve picked up on my embarrassment. “Life more hard. I am… um… parent. Every-thing more hard.”

I ask her about her kids: She nods and smiles when describing each of the three: a two-year old baby-girl and a little boy. Her oldest daughter wants to be a nurse. When she speaks of her husband, she averts her eyes; and despite the slow manner of her chosen worlds, she quickly switches the topic to his job.

“Is good…” she concludes. “Warehouse. Down. Town. Is good!”

The little dog shifts on her stomach and extends his fluffy paws toward me. I take them and rub the un-callused pillows on the bottom. She laughs and teases the bangs above his eyes; and when her hand brushes against mine, I notice that her skin is tougher than the one I’m rubbing in between my fingers.

“You… work?” she asks me.

“Of course,” I say and begin listing my gigs. This is the first time I doubt she understands me. To my own ears, I begin sounding busy, and slightly fussy. So, I stop.

I interrupt my list. “Everybody works here,” I conclude; and the woman begins nodding and smiling aggressively. She is getting the gist of me.

I study her eyes: She stands at my level, and most definitely — at my height! But then she leaves for work; and I reluctantly begin mine. It’s life — at work; and in its working, it is especially unforgiving to us, women.

Yes, it’s a hard way of being: Living as an artist. But then, again, I wouldn’t want to be living — in any other way.

And I’ve tried. In all honesty, I’ve tried to be many things: Anything else but an artist. An administrator, a teaching assistant, and a secretary. A proofreader, an academic, a critic. A manager. An accountant. A librarian.

They had known me for years, and for years — they had seen me working. They had watched me giving a very fair try to living for the sake of a different profession. A “normal” profession. A job. And they had witnessed me change my mind.

Back then, I wasn’t really sure which profession it would turn out to be, so I would try everything. And instead of entertaining things, I would satisfy my curiosity by leaping into every opportunity. Because I always felt I could be so many things; but I wanted to make sure that I couldn’t be anything else — but an artist.

Being an artist resembled an exotic disease — a dis-ease of the soul — and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t one of its victim.

“So, what’s your major this morning?” my folks teased me during our phone calls. I was prone to changing my mind, and the flexibility of my American education confused the hell out of them.

“Well, at least, you’re getting an education,” my best friend comforted me. She always comforted me. And it seemed to bother her the least — my proneness to change my mind, because I felt I could be so many things.

Come to think of it: It should have been easier, in my youth. During our college years, that’s exactly what we were meant to do: To seek. To learn. To experiment. To be — so many things!

But somehow, my contemporaries seemed to be more certain about their paths. They would be teachers or administrators. The more city-savvy types were going into investment banking in New York. And I’ve even known one biologist and a chick who went to work for Fox News. But mostly, they would be teachers.

“How can they be so sure?” I wondered.

Because I wasn’t sure. I could foresee the pleasure in having a day job with which I could identify myself for a couple of years; but the romance of its routine would expire as soon as some bureaucrat’s ego would begin dictating procedures to me, on a daily basis. Some of them didn’t like my language, or my dress code. They handed me time sheets and forms, along with the lists of appropriate jewelry. Some wanted me to tame my hair. Others preferred I didn’t call my colleagues “Loves”.

So, I would leave. I would always leave, but with enough notice and plenty of disappointment noticeable on my employers’ faces:

“It’s just that you had so much potential!” they would say.

“Then, why did you break my balls about my headscarves?” I would think in response. Still, I would leave with grace (even if I was leaving over burning bridges).

After college, I would be the only one in my class to leave for an art school.

Everyone had an opinion. Everyone but me. I still felt I could be so many things, but I really wanted to be — just one!

Some seemed to be quite disappointed in my decision to stick to the arts.

“What are you gonna do — with an art degree? You could be so many things, instead!”

And I wasn’t sure. I still wasn’t sure.

“And how can everybody else — be so sure?!” I wondered.

After the first semester in my MFA program, the uncertainty about my profession would remain. However, the overall vision of my life was becoming clearer: I would be an artist. I WAS an artist. And it was starting to be enough — to be that one thing.

And so, there I was: Willing to risk my life’s stability — the stability about which my contemporaries seemed to be so sure — for the sake of seeking daily inspiration. I would take on projects that would fuel my gratitude and curiosity. I would begin spending my nights in companies of others who shared my exotic disease — the dis-ease of the soul; and I would attend their shows and poetry readings, and loom in front of their paintings in tiny New York galleries. And none of us were still certain about our destinations; and yes, we were still filled with angst. But we did share the same vision: Our moments of happiness were simultaneous to the moments of creation — the moments of dis-ease.

Throughout the years, some of my contemporaries have disappeared into their professions: They turned out to be successful administrators and great teachers. Wonderful teachers, as a matter of fact! I would watch them moving with seeming certainty through their honorable daily routines.

“Still: How can you be so sure?” I would interview a few of them, years later.

I had succumbed to my disease fully by then, and I would learn to maneuver the demands of my survival jobs. I had surrendered.

“Are you kidding?! We aren’t sure at all!” some would answer, honestly.

And for the first time, in their tired and good, decent and honorable faces, I would notice a slight glimmer of doubt.

“Oh!” I would wonder. “So, no one really knows, for sure!”

Strangely, I would find no comfort in their doubtfulness.

But I would find great ease in knowing that I myself had fully surrendered to my disease: The dis-ease of my soul — of an artist.

“Where are you going?” P asked me on the phone during my monthly calls to Motha Russia, after I announced that I was busy packing.

“Eh. A little bit here and there,” I answered while measuring the contents of my closet against the mouth of my giant suitcase, gaping open on the floor. “Here and there. You know.”

I haven’t really finalized my travel plans yet. I mean: I knew I was heading back to Motha Russia — eventually. That explained the uproar currently happening in the family: They haven’t seen me in sixteen years, so the homecoming trip promised to be loaded.

But I wasn’t making that daunting trip for another couple of months. In the mean time, I was giving up my apartment and packing up my giant suitcase.

Apparently there was nothing out of the norm about the vagueness of my plans, because P was agreeing with me, quite enthusiastically:

“Da, da, da!” he said. “I’m listening.”

Dad had always been on my side. He had to be; because I never left him much of a choice but to get used to the nomadic habits of mine. I mean: All I ask for — is my freedom. Is that so hard?

But apparently, in order to accept my antsy temperament and the life-long addiction to wanderlust, I also ask for a lot of trust. Trust was exactly what I relied on when I announced my initial decision — sixteen years ago — to leave Motha Russia in pursuit of my education abroad. Trust was demanded when I later moved to New York, for the same reason; or when I committed the daunting trip back to Cali after my share of victories and defeats on the East Coast.

All along, my relocations were telegraphed to my folk back in Motha Russia on a monthly basis. Considering the homeland chaos, I took it upon myself to keep the connection alive; and I would call, from wherever I landed.

“I’m here, for a little bit. Here and there. You know,” I’d say, while unpacking another giant suitcase.

As far as I was concerned, I was fulfilling my daughterly obligations beautifully. So, whenever P would voice as much as a hesitation or a worry, I’d go bonkers:

“I mean… All I’m asking for — is my freedom! Is that so hard?”

P wouldn’t have much of a choice. So, he would agree with me, quite enthusiastically:

No one knows the responsibility of freedom better — than those of us who vow our lives to its pursuit.

I mean: All I am asking for — is my freedom. And all I am asking of my loves — is trust.

My addiction to wanderlust began in the first years of my life. Mere months after my birth, P — who devoted his life to building the Soviet Empire as an Army man — was being relocated from the East Coast of Motha Russia into the less populated inlands. The first couple of our moves would be done by train; and in the beginning of his career, P could track his ascent through the ranks by the route of the Trans-Siberian Railway.

“You’d always sleep easily, on trains,” he’d say any time I told him about the utter calmness I feel these days, when on a railroad.

His bigger promotion would take us into the middle of the country — into much more brutal winters and lands. For first time in my life, we would have to take a plane ride.

I wouldn’t be older than a year when motha packed me into a tiny suitcase that she kept unzipped on her lap during the 4-hour flight. She would have to get inventive and make a transient crib out of it, stuffing it with a pillow. I would be bundled up into a blanket and wrapped with a ribbon: A tradition taught to Russian mothers by the brutal winters of my Motha’land.

For the duration of the flight, I wouldn’t fuss at all.

“All I could see from my seat — was your button nose peaking out of the tiny suitcase: You were sleeping,” P would tell me whenever I confessed about the utter peace I always feel these days, when up in the air.

In order to feed my life-long addiction to wanderlust, I’ve had to grow up quite quickly. Motha Russia wouldn’t leave my generation much of a choice after the collapse of the Soviet Empire that our parents devoted their lives to building. So, instead of living in ruins, many of us chose to pursue a life — and an education — elsewhere. So, we packed our tiny suitcases and we left. We had to give up our childhood — and to grow up.

Because all we asked for — was our freedom. And for my generation, it was indeed very, very hard.

Because all I’ve asked for — is my freedom. And as someone who’s vowed her life to the pursuit of it, I’ve paid all the consequences of my choices in full — and they have indeed been very, very hard.

And after sixteen years of my untimely adulthood, he agrees with my pursuit of that calmness and peace that I always feel when transient; when in pursuit of my self-education — when in pursuit of my freedom.

LA-LA is in the midst of a major heat wave, and there isn’t enough air to go around.

I’ve woken up not feeling my own limbs: The day job got the best of me last night. Or, it got all of me, seemingly; and suddenly, I remember watching boys on my childhood’s playground torture a daddy longlegs by tearing out one leg at a time from its tiny, silly body.

“A resilient sucker!” they roared at their hideously lopsided creation, as the poor thing continued to make a run for it. It would crawl sideways, clutching the asphalt with half of its legs. And if it gained speed, the boys would eliminate another limb.

“Oh, yeah?! Where are you goin’?”

They fancied themselves as gods already.

The handicap creature would battle with gravity, disoriented by this much loss: Nature hadn’t prepared it for other people’s cruelty. But then, it would find its way back to its feet, however many of those there were left.

Six years old, I remember thinking: “Wouldn’t death be better here?”

I couldn’t stay till the end of the torture: I ran off, crying. I always felt way too much!

Telling my mother would’ve been useless, so I calmed myself down by hiding out under the first-story balconies of our building. It would take a while for the sobbing to subside; but after smearing off the tears and the snot, I sneaked inside the apartment and sat down to write down the story, in my journal.

In the morning, when following motha to spend the entire day in her classroom, I passed the site of the torture. There was nothing left of it. No evidence of other people’s cruelty. Not even a couple of tangled up limbs.

I thought, “It would’ve made for a much better story — if there were.”

This morning, it takes me an hour to get out of bed. In my mind, I’m negotiating with my schedule, dropping things off the list. Eventually, I leap up: I’m gonna be so fucking late!

The legs hit the floor. They are stiff. I stumble a little. Battle with gravity. Slowly, I walk, clutching the carpet with whatever is left of my feet. The ache in my tiny, silly body is obnoxious and the same two fingers on my right hand remind me of an old injury.

When did I decide to become a writer?

At six years old, I used to dream of being anything else: a pop-singer, a cosmonaut; or a clown. The world seemed so small back then, about the size of whatever town we’ve landed in. We had already begun relocating a lot. My parents’ vocations would take us all over the continent (which is not much, considering my former Motha’land took up most of it). And at every new school, on every new playground, I would think up of a new vocation: a veterinarian, a botanist; or a clown.

At six years old, I began reading. A lot. It was the first of my education. I read as if it were my religion, my painkiller, my prayer for getting better, kinder stories out of life.

I would read to cope with transitions, with all of our new landings. With other people’s cruelty. I had already learned about losing friends — to distance or egos. When in pain, I would read in hopes of finding someone else’s stories about the same things I was seeing, feeling.

At six years old, I began traveling. A lot. First, by following my parents’ vocations. Considering my former Motha’land took up most of the continent, travel would always be lengthy; and eventually — most certainly — we would be subjected to some drastic circumstances. I would quickly realize that coping with other people’s cruelty made for much better stories.

At six years old, I would write my first story — for a reader. At the time, I was taking some calligraphy course to prepare me for the first grade, because unlike other people, I was born to a motha with a perfectionist’s vocation.

“Maybe, I could be a calligrapher,” I thought. “Or a clown.”

My teacher — a pretty 18-year old intern from the Teachers’ University — was so impressed with the roundness of my vowels, she asked me what I liked to do, outside of school.

“I read stories,” I mumbled. I was already in complete awe of her, acquiring my life-long habit of empathizing with other people — by falling in love with them. I must’ve blushed: I always felt way too much!

“You should write me a story,” she said, and I’m pretty sure she reached over to straighten out my hair tie.

I did.

But first, I would show it to my motha.

“You killed off all of your characters,” she commented at the end, ruining my pages with her wet hands, after peeling potatoes. “Come help me with the dishes!”

I took the pages back and wiped off my motha’s fingerprints.

“Wouldn’t death be better here?” I thought.

The pretty intern would never get to see my story. I avoided her, for the rest of the course. And every time, I would leave her classroom feeling heartbroken that she wouldn’t ask me to write for her again. And sometimes, I would cry under the first-story balconies of our building.

Because I always felt way too much — and often, I was finding myself alone in it.

I would continue changing my mind about my vocations. Eventually, I would try a few.

And I would continue traveling. A lot. On my own.

And I continued to read, in hopes of finding someone else’s stories about the same things I was seeing and feeling. And to avoid finding myself alone, I began writing down my own stories.

Why would I voluntarily consider falling out of the sky with nothing but another human strapped onto me?

Strangely, since scheduling the appointment, I’ve caught myself wondering more about that very person — the angel on my back — than about the entire procedure of skydiving. I know he is going to be impressively skilled and come with some sort of a life-saving apparatus on his shoulder blades. But what I want to know more is:

Will I be able to talk to the guy?

Will he be one of those delicious badass looking creatures I can daydream about later?

Basically: Will he be — a friend? A comrade?

But still (and here I quote my more sensible comrades): “WHY?!”

I have once caught a postcard urging me to do something fearless every day. (Is there any other company more presumptuous in its vision than Hallmark?) And I wish I could say that I’ve decided to go skydiving at the end of this summer, in order to challenge my most fearful self.

Truth be told, however, for a while there, I haven’t even considered fear.

Until:

“Aren’t you scared shitless?” one of those more sensible comrades of mine texted me yesterday, as if confiding on some shared secret.

Skydiving is just something that I’ve decided to do. It’s just an adventure.

Thus far in life, I’ve had plenty of those; but most of my adventures have happened as consequences to my decisions to better myself. So, as I switched hemispheres in pursuit of my education years ago, adventures would come as part of the package. A once in a lifetime deal, eh? And when I would change states or cities — again, while chasing better opportunities — I would eventually establish a habit for it.

It would feel strangely calm as I would land in every new neigborhood and watch it pass the windows of my cab or train. Immediately, I would unpack my bag. (I still do that, even if just crashing for a night in a hotel room, in an unknown city.) And I think it always had something to do with pitching a temporary home base as someone who’s never had a home to speak of.

Home, for me, was wherever I landed.

Then, I would always take a stroll, or, as of recently, a run through my new neighborhood. I would study the manners of the locals and would often get confused for one of them, by my new city’s tourists.

“Sorry, I’m clueless,” I would confide in these strangers on our shared secret.

My adventures would come unannounced, never pre-negotiated. They would be something to cope with — NOT to anticipate. So, it seems that I’ve never really made A CHOICE to have adventures, in life: I just chose an adventurous life; a fuller life that challenged me to never get content for long enough to give up on my curiosity or wanderlust — but to continue the pursuit of my growth.

So, to quote another more sensible comrade of mine:

“Why the fuck would you wanna kill yourself?”

My decision to jump out of the sky — is in a whole new category of an adventure. It’s a chosen one. With it, there comes a privilege of knowing that I am finally in a position to be able to afford myself, however selectively, these new curiosities that arise; and my gratitude immediately follows. So maybe, in leading a fuller life, not only have I acquired a habit for adventure — but an addiction to gratitude.

That seems just about right.

But now, as wait for the hour of my newly chosen adventure, what do I do with a slew of my more sensible comrades’ expressed fears? Well. I measure them. Or rather, I measure myself against them. I admit to myself that my life has been unlike anyone else’s. My life belongs to someone who’s never had a home to speak of.

Immediately, then: I start measuring myself, despite my comrades’ fears, however sensible. In a way, I must stop listening to them, so that I can continue with my steady blood flow — my chill heartbeat — so that I can overhear the perseverance of my courage. And then: I start looking for the new ground upon which I can land.

So, instead of continuing our chat about the fears of my more sensible comrades, each time, they’ve asked me:

“WHY?!” — I’d changed the topic; and I would express my love for them, my gratitude.

And that is exactly what I’ve spent the last twenty four hours doing: I’ve spun off endless messages of love into the phones and emails of my beloveds; to every comrade, however sensible or fearless, that I have acquired in this adventurous lifetime of mine. Because for me, they are the only valuable possession of mine. And as someone who’s never had a home to speak of, I’ve learned to think of them — as my home bases, all over the world.

So, now, no matter where I go: I always have a place to land.

And I shall always land on my feet, my beloved comrades — the angels on my back! So, don’t you worry: I shall see you on the new ground again, after I’ve fallen out of the sky.

It is truly fucking amazing, but for the very first time in my life, being single does not seem like a social ineptness — a disease of which I am a carrier.

So, as I stand in front of an overwhelmed ticket cashier at my fancy local movie theater, I no longer feel awkwardly apologetic when I say:

“One — for Crazy, Stupid, Love, please.”

The chubby, stressed-out girl in an ill-fitted penguin-like uniform looks up at me. It’s the weekend, but I had just come from a day of hard work. My hair is pulled back. I’m exhausted, not in a self-pitying way of someone burdened by survival; but in a relaxed, proud manner of someone making her own way in the world.

“Was that: One?” she repeats.

I thought I spoke clearly. I usually do, with strangers, subjecting only my beloveds to my habit of speaking in code.

“Yes,” I say, and I smile as kindly as my tired, non-pretty face allows.

The girl purses her lips and flips her computer screen toward me:

“Where would you like to sit?” she says.

I don’t really know how it happens in the lives of other young girls, but in my own adolescence, I’ve never been taught how to get myself successfully paired up. There is nothing my father wanted more, of course, than for me to get married and settle down, always in close proximity to his house. He somehow hoped I would figure it out on my own and — magically! — end up with a decent guy (which by Russian definition meant someone who could hold his liquor and was good at fishing). I would end up with someone my father could trust enough to pass me into his care.

At the same time though, he never talked to me about dating. It made him uncomfortable — this idea of my inching my way toward the problems of adulthood, day after day. And the sequence of my father’s glottal sounds while he sat on the edge of my bed one night and tried to talk to me about sex would make Bill Murray want to take notes: It was so uncomfortably funny.

“Um, P?” I had to interrupt him, because I wanted to remember my father as a hero, NOT as a man incapable of uttering the word “sex” while blushing like a teenager. “It’s past midnight and I’ve got an English final in the morning.”

I was in tenth grade.

Not kidding. Dad — or “P”, as I called him, lovingly, in my habit of speaking in code — had always been delusional about my sexual development. I wasn’t even sure he knew I had gotten my period four years prior. Most of the time, we just talked about my studies. Because all my life, I had been an exemplary student, earning my way into the best private school in our city; and my education — was the biggest of my own concerns anyway.

“You just gotta be careful…” he mumbled that night, and once he got up, he would fumble with the seam of his thermal shirt and blink rapidly to avoid my stare. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“I am, P. Good night,” and I smiled at him as kindly as my tired face would allow.

And that was it. That was the only time P chose to suffer through that topic. Not even after my parents’ divorce would either of them invest any time in explaining the complexity of human relationships to me: the work that it took to be successfully paired up, and the amount of self-awareness; the amount of commitment.

Whatever I learned about dating I would learn from my contemporaries. Boys would be the main topic in the cafeteria of my college, to which I had arrived on a full scholarship. Again, in my 20s, education would remain the biggest of my concerns. By the end of our studies, many of my classmates would be engaged, or married; or moving back home where they were awaited by their families and boyfriends. I, however, was en route to graduate school, hustling my way to earn more scholarships.

In our rendezvous to the City, we would occasionally meet up — my college contemporaries and I — and they would purse their lips at my awkwardly apologetic answer:

“Yes. I’m still (insert a shrug) — single.”

In my dating life, I would feel clumsy and uncertain. By the example of my contemporaries, before each date, I would dress myself up into what seemed to be a better, prettier version of me: And during the date itself, I would often gain a headache. Because by the end of it, I couldn’t keep track of all the omissions and alterations I would manufacture. And when I wouldn’t hear from my dates for weeks, I would throw myself back into my studies.

Something would change of course, with time. Somewhere during the pursuit of my dreams, I would begin to sit in my skin a bit more comfortably. There would be a slew of reckless relationships and even a failed marriage; but I would begin to learn about dating, by trial and error. And the one thing that eventually became obvious was this:

I was NOT like most of my contemporaries. I was someone paving her own way in the world since a very young age, via her education. I was also an immigrant who had to work twice as hard as her contemporaries in order to be their equal. So, there was no way I could use someone else’s skills and opinions in order to pair myself up, successfully.

Because I am no longer willing to mold myself into a better, prettier version of me, I am beginning to find that the version of me already in existence — is pretty fucking amazing. And that very version, however tired or un-pretty, I now carry into my dates; and I surprise myself that the men I choose seem to be more comfortable with me as well. They are more confident, more fun.

And then I move on, to more adventures and dreams, in the pursuit of which I don’t really need to be paired up — UNLESS successfully.

“Um, miss?” the penguin-girl appears even more stressed out since meeting me. “Where would you like to sit? We’re almost sold out, but since you’re single…”

I smile. I choose the best seat in the house, buy myself a single latte and wandering through the lobby’s bookshop, in a relaxed, proud manner of someone who can afford herself these tiny privileges, in life.

I am someone — making her own way in the world. And I’m pretty fucking amazing!

Not the first time I’ve heard a beautiful woman call herself “a nerd”!

As a matter of fact, I think it must be some sort of an insider saying of my clan — my half of the species capable of dusting off a compliment either due to its insincerity or whatever insecurity it has activated.

“Oh, you mean: this old thing?”

But she would say, “Yeah, I’m a nerd,” — and she would pout, do that thing with her eyelashes; flip her hair, shoot down your heart from behind its cascade; and thrust forward one of her magical hips. She would take a stand: “You have no idea! A complete. And total. Nerd.”

And doesn’t it make you want to die at her feet, like a sacrificial slave at the pyre compiled in her name? You goddess! You perfection.

Celebrities say that, and all the pretty actresses. Some stunners have testified to their once-upon-a-time addiction to knowledge as well. And I get it, but still I find myself doubting them ever so slightly.

But of course, of course! Brain and beauty — is one powerful combination, and I am a lifetime fan. (Just ask my girls. Or, just look at them, really.)

But by its very definition, it seems, beauty cannot be isolated. It shouldn’t be isolated because we all want a piece of it, so much. Oh, but it consoles us! It fools, even if just for the duration of being in its company. For just a little while, it disorients against the ugliness of our griefs. And somehow life begins seeming quite alright. And we all seem so much more deserving.

So, it would be so unfair, so odd, or mismatched when a beautiful thing claims to have been burdened by so much knowledge it makes her socially inept. Because theoretically, a beautiful person should be better equipped than the rest of us: Attracting attention with one’s mortal coil must come with a life-long skill, right? An advantage. A leg-up. An in. Otherwise: What’s the fucking point?

But last night — or at a painfully early hour of this morning — I heard myself say to a comrade, in my low-registered half-mumble half-whisper for which I blame the native tongue of my people:

“Sorry! I’m such a nerd. A complete. And total. Nerd.”

And then, I flipped my hair. Oh, you mean: this old thing?

Knowledge has been an addiction of mine for — what’s the expression? — “longer than I can remember”. Back in my childhood, I was a loner, perpetually hiding behind the book covers of all the heavy Russian dogs. Because while peaking from behind Nabokov’s spine, life seemed mellowed out by melancholy. And with Bulgakov — it was just a fucking trip! A joke! A comedy of the absurd. Leo Tolstoy intimidated right off the bat, even my own people; while Yesenin attracted conversations:

“Did you know he fucked around with Isadora Duncan?”

Scandalous!

“They killed him in bar fight, with a knife. Like a dog!”

And Akhmatova: She always demanded for me to lower her stanzas, even if because I couldn’t take her any more, with all that sobering truth. And she ordered me to take in life, instead.

Adolescence would be spent behind the spines of other dogs, more foreign, more worldly; and much less in love with the Motha’land. But then came a day, on a bus ride to my father’s town, when I lowered a tome to catch a breath and found a pretty thing distorted in the window’s reflection, with nighttime behind it. From behind the cascade of my hair, I examined her; did that thing with my eyelashes — and then, I went back to reading.

Because it wouldn’t change a thing: I would still chase the big dogs and dust off the clumsy compliments from young boys and the drooling older gentlemen either due to their insincerity or whatever insecurity they would activate in me. And I would chase my dogs far enough to the edge of the continent. And when the big dogs jumped — I jumped right after them and swam to the other coast.

Years later, I still find myself addicted to my books. But more than that, I have perfected the addiction to fit more life into it: I am now addicted to learning. Any learning! All the life’s new things: show me, tell me, guide the way! And often pro bono, I grant my life the immediate curiosity so easily available from behind the spines of all the big dogs; and it, most of the time, pays it back –tenfold.

So, last night — or at a painfully early hour of this morning — I heard myself say to a comrade, in my low-registered half-mumble half-whisper for which I blame the native tongue of my people:

“Sorry! I’m such a nerd.”

I have been pacing my apartment — with all the big dogs lining-up its walls with their spines — and I have been sweating my ear against the phone while trying to explain the new curiosities of this year. The poor comrade could not have known that I’ve been laboring over my work for eleven hours already: that I had written for five and researched my media for the rest. That I have already played with a few other bloggers — other nerdy and, as I imagined, very beautiful girls taking a peak at life from behind the cascades of their hair and from behind the spines of their laptops in their own apartments, illuminated by nothing more than the light of the blogosphere. That I’ve had a day full of life already — and full of curiosities paid back to me tenfold; but after the town shut down, I still wanted more life. And I would find it — behind the spine of my laptop.

“Yeah. A complete. And total. Nerd,” I giggled. Or maybe I didn’t.

But I do remember flipping my hair and thinking how light it was — and how easy! — to grant my life the immediate curiosities so easily available from behind the spine of my laptop. And even though most of the hours of my learning have been spent in solitude — in isolation so typical for a nerd — everything seemed so much fuller:

Of life.

Of light and lightness.

And of purpose whose source of enlightenment was not only knowledge — but gratitude itself, paid back to me, tenfold.

Let this wild cat on her eighth life tell you how it is: A successful relationship is the hardest thing you’ll ever do. Take my word for it. For most of us, our lives haven’t been ravaged by war or incurable disease or poverty. We aren’t oppressed on the daily basis into a category of borderline servants in a male-dominated culture. We are free to choose the cities of our residence, the degrees on our diplomas and the length of our hair. So, if you happened to live in the First World Country — such as this ever-so-fascinating experiment of the U.S. of A. — that allows for enough leisure time to entertain the concept of CHOICE, you’ve got yourself a complicated task on your hands.

CHOICE. My favorite word. Ever! Maybe it’s because in the country of my origin — my badass Motha’ Russia — I wasn’t granted too many of choices. Or perhaps, the hellholes of my previous six lives have prevented me from making “love” my favorite word. But to me, a choice is the highest privilege a free man and woman can have; and if it’s been granted to you by birth — well, then: You’re one lucky mother fucker! No, wait. I spoke too soon. Now that I’ve finally advanced my station in life beyond survival of a mere immigrant, I am starting to understand that one’s right to choose comes with a responsibility.

The very purpose of my humble existence, I believe, is too collect the stories of humanity — and then, retell them; and my favorite subjects — are the magnificent creatures of my own gender. So, as one of those coolest Amazons I’ve adopted for a sister has once told me:

“It is our responsibility — to live a good life.”

She herself was born into a culture in which women better fit into a category of things. Having been thrown around enough by her family, she got her wits together at a criminally young age (for, I believe, NO child should inherit the suffering of his or her parents!) — and she fled. On the coast of her new and democratic country, she spent decades molding herself into an independent, powerful woman with an income that beats most men’s, allows her to explore the world and grants her access to every possible opportunity that arouses her curiosity. Bare-handedly, she wrangled with her — ah, here’s that word again! — choices of partners, and to this day, has refused to settle for (drumroll, ladies!) less than what she deserves.

Say, you’ve finally found “The One.” (I cringe here a little, my lovely ladies, because I would be so very, very, very careful with granting that title to anyone other than your self. There is no more crucial relationship in life than THE one you have — with YOU! And if you haven’t invested in that honest and intimate and most important love of your life, then you will neither be a happy partner nor make a partner happy.)

So, back to “The One.” You’ve done the legwork and the self-examination. You’ve explored your choices. You’ve suffered enough in bad match-ups to live up to your better expectations; and here you are: coupled up with a partner that suits you best. You’re done! You’re on the threshold of your Happily Ever After. Hallelujah! Right?

Nyet!

I must break it to you, ladies, but the tale of your Happily Ever After will demand continuous commitment and work. Here is my beef with fairytales: After an epic search for love by their heroines, these tales we’ve lapped up as little girls cut-off abruptly once the match-up finally happens. No one tells us about how Cinderella deals with moving into the Prince Charming’s bachelor pad and handles his messy living habits. Or whether or not the Pea Princess welcomes all the other hard things her man presents in bed due to his insatiable sexual appetite. Does Snow White agree to her in-laws’ demands to change her last name; and is her Prince chill with her having a multitude of male friends? When Rapunzel pops out her babies, gets a job and decides to cut off her hair, how does that sit with her lover; and how do they get past the negotiation? See what I mean, ladies? The questions, the work, the communication and the diplomacy required for a successful relationship — are never-ending.

So, I wish you courage in pursuit of your fairytales, the gorgeous sisters of my gender; because courage is exactly what it takes to remain in love with yourself, another person, or this whole living deal. May you stay curious, continue changing and may your partner have the balls to keep up. But here is my most crucial spiel: Pah-lease, remain authentic to yourself in your own story writing. Don’t follow other women’s choices, especially if those choices haven’t been examined, but predetermined by fear, laziness or the majority’s dogma. If you are lucky enough to have choices — don’t take them for granted. You are free to write your own fucking fairytales, my Amazons; and besides that being a privilege — it is your bloody responsibility to do so.

As any immigrant, I suffer from a dual personality. Actually, I’m a bit of a special head case and the list of my personalities seems as endless as the line to Moscow’s first McD’s back on the verge of Russia’s democratic regime; but if you’re one of those purebred Americans (do those even exist?), you should know that in the head of any emigre reigns a border-line schizophrenia. I’m kinda like that Nina chick from Chekhov’s Seagull:

In my head’s case, the endless tug o’ war is on the topic of my identity. When it comes to the tales of V as a child — she is a Russian little bugger; and those memories and dreams happen in a whole different language. But as a woman, I’ve built my history here, in the U.S. of A. My first love, my first sexual partner, the first heartbreak, the first loss of a loved one — all happened here. So, when it comes to my consciousness as a lover, I doth speak English. In other words, when things get hot ‘n‘ heavy between me and my boos, my tongue communicates in the language I’ve adopted by choice.

So, the hardest question from an American that I can ever answer (besides: “Do you guys have TV’s over there?”) is this MoFo:

“Which country do you prefer?”

Fuck me! That’s the hardest toss-up ever.

There is no pride stronger — or devotion more realized — than the one an immigrant feels toward his or her chosen country; especially if the country they’ve left behind gave them some tough lovin’ back in the day. Some of my fellow ex-patriots, for instance, react to Motha’ Russia’s name with dry heaves: So impossible is their forgiveness! But seemingly, I’ve finally reached the very delicate balance of being able to not only fully participate in my American life, but to cash-in on my Russian-ness. By that I mean that, for the very first time since I’ve switched continents, I am able to speak of Russia with forgiveness and admiration. Now, I am not blind to the irony that out of all the choices of my potential homelands, I had to go choose the largest mother fucker after Motha’ Russia; so that I could continue my gypsy bounce without having to switch visas. Also, I don’t need the help of my shrink to point out the element of rebellion in the Soviet child’s selection of the country her father spent his entire life opposing. (Papa was a Soviet Army officer. ‘Nough said.)

When I encounter my fellow Russians on this fast American land of mine, I gotta say: They are kinda badass! I now reside in a close proximity to the Soviet Emigre Central, otherwise known as West Hollywood — still the most liberal ‘hood you can find yourself in LA-LA Land, in my opinion. So, I tend to run into a few of my former country’s comrades. Yes, I’ve seen the type of the middle-aged, purple-haired woman who looks at you as if premeditating ways she can kill you. I’ve passed the line-ups of male retirees playing dominos on park benches — all unanimously wearing tracksuits — while they maintain their stoic silence despite the shortness of my dress. In Hollywood clubs, I’ve picked-out the cluster of young Russian males, in black leather jackets, telegraphing their attraction to me with no more than an eyebrow raise. But those types are usually guarding a handful of decked-out, made-up, pretty and very expensive Russian girls with demands of such high maintenance, you’d think they’ve never lived through deficits of toilet paper or winter-long power and water outages. (See my rant about dem Russian girls: https://fromrussianwithlove.wordpress.com/2011/02/16/from-russia-with-love-very-very-expensive-love. So, yep: I usually stay away from those.)

Recently, I’ve even encountered a couple of Russian business types. By “business,” I don’t mean they handle those jobs that a real-life Tony Soprano would be helpless to do himself. Here, I am actually speaking of Russians who are in pursuit of some honest livin‘ — and some American dollars. (Although, if a Russian “businessman” ever threatens to kill you — I recommend to just take his word for it: It’s just safer that way.)

From this year’s encounters, I began to wonder about the source of my pride I feel toward the better-equipped, better-integrated generation of Russian movers ‘n’ shakers in the midst of their American professional careers. First of — and most importantly! — these types are always well-educated. Even if most of their college life unfolded in this country, my dear ex-patriots maintain a very high standard of learning. There is no such thing in Russia’s educational system as “an elective subject,” you see, my comrades: You bust yo’ ass and pretend to enjoy soaking-up every science, every art and every humanity. So, it’s been my experience, that usually, my peeps know what they’re talking about. The second reason for my pride for my fellow ex-patriots has been better articulated by the previously mentioned Boss Soprano:

“You Russians, you got all the angles. You come over here, you bust your ass.” He did manage to get himself some Russian ass at the end of this pep talk, but still: Russian emigres are some of the hardest working people I know.

And then: there is the cultural heritage. I’m not just talking about the again mandatory exposure to the richness of Motha’ Russia’s arts. I mean: The national strength that originates from one’s ability to bear and persevere. As we all know, Motha’ Russia has got herself a long and tumultuous history. Oh how inventive She’s been in the ways to make her children suffer! Famine, political unrest, centuries of oppression and dictatorships; wars and invasions; inflations and poverty; exile and holocaust — She’s got it all! (She sounds like a lovely place to visit, doesn’t She?!) And still, the people of my old country refuse to settle down. No matter the forever-looming danger of persecution, they insist on practicing their right to an opinion and the pursuit of change. (Here is a tale of one recent Russian whistle-blower: http://soviet-awards.com/digest/pavlichenko/pavlichenko1.htm. And I thought, my blog was controversial!)

“Now is the winter of our discontent,” the bard once sang. Considering the length of those damn Russian winters, the unrest of my former people seems never endless. But just as my own Russian motha’ prefers to love me from afar, something tells me it is better to practice my affection for my former land from a distance as well. And still, whether they choose to suffer back home or excel in their pursuits on the American land, I have to hand it to my Russian comrades: May your stubborn courage and high expectations of your Motha’ country finally deliver a summer of rest and prosperity.